


Don't push me too far

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Complicated Relationships, Father-Daughter Relationship, Half-Sibling Incest, Infidelity, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 17:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6204451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin wants more from Fëanor, but that of course is easier said than done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't push me too far

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same verse as [Over me and over you](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4462130).

Fëanáro had been gone for too long. 

He had left with his sons, out of the blue, on one of his whimsical journeys in what was a wonted pattern: he would be gone for weeks or months on end only to reappear in Tirion the same way he had left, without so much as a word of warning to anyone but his father and, presumably, his wife.

After the months became a whole year, and the year almost stretched into two, Ñolofinwë grew restless. A message arrived for Finwë's begetting day, with the promise that Fëanáro would be back in time for the next one. Ñolofinwë couldn't wait. He couldn't help the suspicion that Fëanáro's intention was to shun him – to be away so long that the budding understanding between them would be hushed into sterility, relegated into a shadowy corner of their existences. 

He didn't have the slightest idea where he might find his brother. He thought of asking their father, but Finwë would probably be alarmed by his request, and was already distraught enough given Fëanáro's long absence. Nerdanel would probably tell him, if she indeed knew where her husband and sons were, but she would not hesitate to ask why he wanted to know Fëanáro's whereabouts, either, and he couldn't tell her the truth. He thought of setting out on his own even, to distract himself if nothing else. 

As day after day passed, his need, his yearning to meet Fëanáro again, talk to him and give their relationship a definite form grew into an obsession. The vagueness of their situation vexed him, doubly so since the atmosphere in Tirion was beginning to shift subtly into something he didn't quite like. 

He resolved to ask Írissë's help on a stormy evening, after Melkor had visited court, making a pointed remark on how wayward it was for the High Prince to be absent for so long, how unfair to Ñolofinwë, to be the one to help the King in his duties, and not get the recognition he would have deserved for it. 

Írissë spent much of her time with her cousins and often went on long hunting trips with them. Írissë, who had grown to be just as self-assured as her brothers, and brasher than either, would not be outraged by his confession or look down on him for it.

She was sitting at the round table in her morning room when he went to her, the windows all thrown open to let in the magnolia-scented breeze from the garden, every tree and flower still dripping with the previous day's rain. Ñolofinwë greeted her with a smile as he entered through the open door and closed it softly behind himself. 

“I need your help,” he said then, pausing to gauge Írissë's reaction before going on. 

Írissë looked up, and although a flicker of surprise crossed her face, she smiled at her father. “My help?”

Ñolofinwë nodded and walked up to her. He stopped next to the table and tried to overcome the last obstacle posed by his pride by letting his eyes roam over the paper squares scattered over its sheeny marble surface. He picked one up – a bright blue square, with golden waves painted on it, very likely Teleri-made. “About Fëanáro,” he quickly said.

Írissë finished creasing a similar square of paper and set it down in a row next to other finished pieces before looking up at him again. “...is he the reason why you have been so pensive lately? The waywardness of the High Prince?”

“No, not that,” Ñolofinwë denied, giving her a small lopsided grin. “But I need to meet with him. There is...an urgent matter I need to discuss with him. Do you have any idea where he and his sons might be?”

“I know of a few of their retreats, yes,” Írissë admitted, growing a little perplexed, and a little curious, “...at least, a couple of the ones closest to Tirion.”

“Could you send them a message? Perhaps to Tyelcormo?”

“I doubt sending them a message would help with whatever you want to discuss with Fëanáro. What is so urgent?”

Ñolofinwë laid the paper back down on the table. He grabbed the chair next to Írissë's and pulled it back to sit down on it. “I...” He rubbed his hands together and stooped over. “We have been seeing each other, for a while.”

“Seeing?” Írissë echoed, shrewdly guessing that the innocent word bore a special meaning. “As in...being lovers?”

“No –...not as lovers,” Ñolofinwë denied, but was surprised by how the word sounded on his lips. He had never told of his encounters with Fëanáro to anybody. He had never spoken of themselves as lovers before, and articulating those syllables brought with it a titillating thrill, and stirred up his frustration full force. “Not yet. It is...what I would like to achieve.”

At that, Írissë raised both eyebrows. She let the paper sheet she had just picked up fall back on the table and turned her chair, so that she sat directly opposite her father, and could speak to him eye to eye. “You are _in love_ with him?”

“I suppose...I mean, yes. I care about him, and I can't stand the division between us any longer.”

“You had sex.” 

The statement was matter-of-fact. 

“We did," Ñolofinwë slowly said, his eyes losing focus as he recalled the afternoons Fëanáro and he had spent sparring, touching, their limbs tangled, sliding against one another. “We wrestled at first, naked, on the banks of a hidden river not too far from here. But once the anger had bled out of our bodies, we found ourselves pleasuring each other, and yes...we did things to each other I'm sure only people who love each other would allow.” 

“Should I worry about what sort of things?” Írissë said, with a note of amusement to her voice. 

Ñolofinwë shook his head, smiling. He was heartened by Írissë's acceptance, and his smile didn't falter even when she went on to ask, “what about mom?”

“She doesn't know anything, of course," he sighed. "I don't think I can tell her, at least not before the situation is more definite.”

“...Well, this definitely isn't the sort of relationship you could freely talk about regardless,” Írissë remarked after some consideration: she knew the constraints of status and customs quite well, and disregarded them for the most part. “Don't worry, your secret is safe with me.”

“I know, and I thank you with all my heart for it.”

Írissë took his hands in hers and stood up. “I guess it's time for us to go on a trip, then. I confess I am quite keen to see how you will handle this.”

*

They found Fëanáro and his sons on the seventh day after leaving Tirion. The place was as Írissë had described it to him: a clearing among tall pine trees, with a shabby-looking hut to one side, and a campfire to the other, reached with a very bumpy ride through an unpathed forest.

Írissë, in her white riding mantle, became soon visible to the men sitting around a crackling fire. As they drew closer Ñolofinwë could make out their expressions, which wavered between surprise and anger.

It wasn't just Fëanáro. Curufinwë turned towards Tyelcormo, scowling at him – if Ñolofinwë had managed to make his way to that place, it could only be because Tyelcormo had told Írissë about it. The twins for their part sprang up, and looked as if they were merely waiting for their father to tell them to chase Ñolofinwë away.

Fëanáro luckily didn't. As soon as they had ridden up to the edge of the clearing, Ñolofinwë dismounted from his horse, giving it a couple affectionate pats on the neck, cooing it, before letting it go free to roam the forest. 

Making up excuses would hardly have helped in that situation, so he thought of none. He didn't speak at all while he drew close to Fëanáro, heedless of his sons' gazes, and planted himself next to him on the large boulder where he sat, feigning calm even though his heart had sped up at the mere sight of his brother. He let a few moments pass during which he observed Fëanáro from the corner of his eye, taking note of his posture, of the lines criss-crossing on his face. 

“I need to talk to you,” he said finally, as evenly and emotionlessly as he could.

Ñolofinwë expected Fëanáro to retort _'I don't'_ , but Fëanáro didn't say anything of the sort. He didn't utter anything more eloquent than a low grumble. Ñolofinwë thought that maybe he didn't want to talk about their encounters in the presence of his sons, but dismissed the notion right away – he would have been surprised if Fëanáro 's sons didn't already know about what they had done on the riverbank. He dared hope that perhaps, _perhaps_ Fëanáro too felt the need to talk things out.

The gathering dusk was encroaching on the forest, and any further explanations were tacitly postponed to the following day. Supper was a tense affair. The twins sat rigid on the logs, looking not any more alive than their mother's statues. Fëanáro stared down at his food, apparently lost in thought. If there was any conversation at all it was thanks to Maitimo and Macalaurë, who enquired about the latest happenings in Tirion, with the occasional remark from Tyelcormo and Írissë. Írissë was evidently ill at ease – leading her father there had been little short than a breach of trust – and Ñolofinwë began to feel sorry for involving her, but told himself that if he managed to settle things with Fëanáro, and if thanks to that the rift between them were to be mended, it would benefit her too.

Ñolofinwë and Írissë were given their own bedding for the night, laid out in the opposite corner from where Fëanáro and his sons slept on two creaky makeshift beds. Írissë only went to sleep after a long discussion with Curufinwë, which Ñolofinwë only partially overheard through the wall. 

Whatever they had told each other, it seemed to bear its intended result. In the morning, Fëanáro's sons and Írissë were already about to leave for a hunt when Ñolofinwë woke up. Írissë waved back at him from her horse, and in her gaze was the sort of hearty encouragement that made it quite clear she wouldn't be happy with him if he didn't take advantage of that occasion to the fullest.

“Well then,” Fëanáro began, as soon as the riders disappeared in the fleecy mist among the trees, “what makes you think you have a right to break into my retreat like this?”

Ñolofinwë rubbed his sleepy face with his right hand, still gazing in the distance. “You left things unfinished with me...I told you I want you to avow that we are lovers.”

“You're still fixated about that?”

Ñolofinwë walked the few steps separating him from his brother and stood in front of Fëanáro. Their eyes locked together. “Speak those words to me,” he fervently said.

Fëanáro's face tensed up as it had the previous night, and he crossed his arms over his chest, clamming up. “I won't.”

The refusal was point-black, seemingly leaving no room for any further negotiation. Ñolofinwë had the urge to grab Fëanáro, shake him, grind their lips together and forcefully pull the admission he wanted from his mouth, syllable after syllable. “At least tell me why.”

“I'm under no obligation to do so,” Fëanáro spat, and made to turn away. Ñolofinwë did grab him then, clenching his hand around both his arms. Fëanáro's gaze darkened as he added, “you already have more than you could have reasonably expected. You should be content with that.”

“Content,” Ñolofinwë repeated to himself, outraged by the mere suggestion that he should be content with their sporadic, brief encounters like a stray dog should be content with leftovers from a feast, after he had said he wanted so much more than that. “So you admit there is something.”

“I've never denied that.”

“Then why refuse to give it a name?”

“Because it doesn't need one. It doesn't need to be fixed into a form. And now let me go.”

Ñolofinwë didn't. He didn't want to let his brother go. His mind worked frantically, and latched onto the next best thing. “Let's wrestle again –”

“Very well,” Fëanáro hastily assented, huffing with irritation. 

“If I win, we will have sex. I will take you,” Ñolofinwë went on, offhand. He was grateful his voice didn't crack, remained cool instead. Fëanáro looked taken aback for an instant, and Ñolofinwë felt him stiffen in his hold, but he had already agreed and so gave a minute nod. “If you win, you can do whatever you want with me.”

“Whatever?” Fëanáro repeated, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a mirthless smirk. “Even get rid of you?”

Ñolofinwë let go of Fëanáro's arms, taking a step back. His face fell, and Fëanáro inclined his head, waving his right hand in a tacit admission that he had gone too far. 

In the clearing there wasn't sand, but grass and mud, and small bits of charred wood and ash from the evening's fire. Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë got rid of their clothes, leaving them on the boulders and logs which were used as seats, and stood face to face. The morning air was still quite cool – cooler than it normally was in Tirion or on the riverbank – and they both twisted and stretched to get their bodies used to it. 

They never took their eyes off each other, and after they had loosened up their muscles they began inching closer, step by step, warily, until finally they engaged, Fëanáro lunging at Ñolofinwë and nearly knocking him to the ground. 

The fight was longer and trickier than their usual scuffles in the sand, both for the new setting and for what was at stake, dragging on until both were nearly out of breath. Ñolofinwë couldn't tell if it was thanks to one of his moves, or if it was due to merely to chance, but at one point – a glorious instant – Fëanáro lost his footing on a patch of particularly damp grass and went down on his back. The fall allowed Ñolofinwë to pin him to the ground. He flung himself over his brother, wrapping his left arm under Fëanáro's neck and bearing down on his chest with his whole weight. Fëanáro thrashed, his breathing ragged, but his attempts to free himself were to no avail. Ñolofinwë pressed down on him harder still, nearly cutting his supply of air, and Fëanáro desisted.

As soon as Fëanáro went limp under him, Ñolofinwë released him, panting noisily while the thrill of the fight drained from him, to be immediately replaced by the giddy elation of victory, and of what it would award him – if he had the nerve to claim it. He shifted his body to completely cover Fëanáro, their sweat mingling on their chests, and ground his already half-hard cock against him. Fëanáro looked dismayed, his brow furrowed, but was not unresponsive to his touch, his own cock rapidly hardening with the friction of Ñolofinwë's thigh on it just like it usually had after every other of their wrestling matches.

Their faces were very close and Ñolofinwë couldn't resist kissing him. He lowered his head, smashing their lips together, plunging his tongue in Fëanáro's mouth. To his relief, Fëanáro's tongue met his and coiled around it with such ardour that any second thought he might have had was swept away. 

He broke the kiss, rose to his feet and helped Fëanáro up, too. 

“You –”

“I will hold my end of the agreement,” Fëanáro said flatly. 

Ñolofinwë nodded. Fëanáro wrenched his hand from his hold and turned. He preceded Ñolofinwë inside the hut and one of the thin, bumpy mattresses set on a low wooden frame that passed for beds, its covers still thrown back and crumpled at the foot of it from the previous night. 

Fëanáro sat down on it, his body twisted towards the nightstand. Ñolofinwë sat down next to him while Fëanáro fumbled with the drawer. His left hand caressed Fëanáro's back, brushing the bits of dirt and ash that stuck to it, but indulging in the feel of his heated skin too, tasting the smoothness of it under his fingers, and tracing the lines of muscles he had come to know to the tiniest detail. 

Fëanáro let him do for a while, then slammed the drawer shut and turned towards him. “Get on with it,” he sighed, throwing him a small enamelled bottle.

Ñolofinwë barely managed to catch it, trapping it against his chest before it could slip to the floor. “I –”

“I won't pander to your hesitations,” Fëanáro cut him short, lying back on the bed, making himself comfortable on the mattress. “You're certainly not the first one to do this.”

“Aren't I?” Ñolofinwë returned, stifling the resentment, jealousy even, that assailed him at the notion that he had to fight to get what unnamed others had already had before him, that he would be just one of many to have sex with his brother with no greater claim to any particular consideration than those _others_. 

He uncorked the bottle – it took some force – and poured the thick oil it contained on the fingers of his right hand. He nudged Fëanáro's legs open – he had to suppress a gasp as Fëanáro unresistingly parted them – and brought his fingers to Fëanáro's opening, caressing the puckered skin delicately. 

Once again Fëanáro snorted, and hit Ñolofinwë's leg with his right foot.

“Don't bother. Just do it.”

Ñolofinwë continued to tickle his entrance, pretending to ignore him. He circled the rim again and again, making sure to wet it thoroughly, then stuck two of his fingers inside. Fëanáro's opening did yield to them easily, seemingly sucking them in. As he had expected, the sensation was heady, travelling up his whole arm and down to his cock, making him shiver. He pushed his fingers in until his knuckles rested against Fëanáro's ass and dragged them back, pressing his fingertips against Fëanáro's walls as he went, while his thumb drew small arches on the skin beneath Fëanáro's sack.

“Ñolofinwë,” Fëanáro said, more sternly, his tone carrying a clear warning. 

Ñolofinwë thrust his fingers deep again, then pulled them out. This wasn't making love, he reminded himself, not yet. He coated his cock with a generous amount of the salve, and set bottle and cork onto the nightstand, not bothering to close it again. He took position between Fëanáro's legs, spreading them wider with his hands while his cock nudged the wet opening. He shoved in, stopping only when a gasp pushed all air out of his lungs and forced him take a deep breath, then arched over Fëanáro, took hold of his wrist and pinned his arms to the bed, sinking into him to the hilt. Fëanáro tilted his head back, the motion exposing his neck. 

Ñolofinwë was tempted to kiss it, bite it, mark it, but he couldn't do any of that, yet, so he pulled all the way out, paused for a moment, and thrust in again.

There was pleasure in the act, raw and blunt – the satisfaction and thrill of taking his older brother – but even greater was the relief, the joy, the perfection of it – the realisation that _that_ was precisely what he had been hankering for all those years. _To be one_ with his brother, like they had been meant to be, because their differences ran only skin-deep and the blood that separated them could be bled out of them and replaced by so much else. 

His thrusts were deep and unhurried at first, and each savoured as if it had been meant to be the only one. The slide of his cock in and out of Fëanáro, the heat and tightness of his insides – it was all sublime. His eyes drifted shut and he didn't even notice he was panting loudly. He thrust into Fëanáro, changing his angle one, which enabled him to go even deeper, and the deeper he went, the more frantic his movements became. He was aware of nothing save Fëanáro beneath and around him, until a loud sob brought him back to reality and he realised it was his own. 

He reopened his eyes and risked to look down.

Fëanáro stared up fixedly at him, but his eyes were hazy with pleasure and he chewed on his lower lip, as if to stifle his voice. 

Ñolofinwë returned his stare with fervour and hoped Fëanáro would see, recognise the emotion in his gaze for what it was. He wished to open his heart to him and be joined with him not merely in body. He almost caved in and said the words he wanted to hear himself, while his hips jerked on their own and his balls smacked against Fëanáro's ass. 

“Brother,” he said in a faltering whisper, his fingertips digging into the skin of Fëanáro's forearms.

Fëanáro let go of his lower lip, his mouth parted just barely and he susurrated, “little brother.”

Ñolofinwë moaned and went on in his own head: _'little brother, I love you'_. 

_'I love you too,'_ he almost said out loud.

Fëanáro kept staring at him, and Ñolofinwë had to struggle not to believe his own fantasy. Abruptly, he pulled out and flipped Fëanáro to lie prone to ward off that temptation, to escape from the snare that were Fëanáro's eyes. The last he saw of them was a burning glint of speckled silver. He re-entered him, and draped himself all over his back, grateful to be taller, because it allowed him to cover his brother's body from head to foot even then that he was buried in him. He kissed his nape, then lay his cheek on his shoulder while he rocked into him, his hips lifting off the bed to pull back and smacking loudly against Fëanáro's buttocks every time he thrust in again. 

He staved his release off for as long as he could, but when the tremors in Fëanáro's body revealed that he had come, he drove deep into his brother, let his seed spurt from him and filled him with it.

Once he had regained control over his own movements, he hastened to roll off of him. 

Fëanáro turned to lie on his side, facing away from him. 

Ñolofinwë stared at his back as Fëanáro asked: “Are you happy? You had your way.”

“Curufinwë,” he began, but his voice trailed off into uncomfortable silence, which brought with it a bitter aftertaste that almost marred his joy. But what was done was done, and if he trod carefully it could be one more block for him to build onto. 

He was about to speak again when Fëanáro rolled over again, and faced him. He gazed searchingly at him. His face was still somewhat tense but the irritation and scorn that had been in his voice weren't in his expression. He gave a long sigh, lowered his gaze, and nuzzled his head against Ñolofinwë's neck. The motion reminded Ñolofinwë of a cat – thoughtless, stubborn, haughty, and unpredictable.

He allowed himself a small smile at the thought – perhaps he should just deal with Fëanáro as he would with a cat. He tentatively wrapped his left arm around Fëanáro's back, hugging him to himself. Fëanáro didn't pull away, didn't even stir, and that emboldened Ñolofinwë to cradle the back of Fëanáro's head too with his other hand. Soon his breathing quieted down. That too was a progression from their earlier routine of bringing each other to orgasm then going their separate ways. Ñolofinwë's last conscious thought, before he followed his brother into sleep, was that Írissë would be pleased with him, too.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song The Unforgettable Fire by U2.


End file.
